


The Facts Were These

by White_Marker



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Depression, Drama, Friendship, Life as a baby vamp, M/M, Music, Stubborn vs. stubborn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-08-29 10:21:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8485633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/White_Marker/pseuds/White_Marker
Summary: The facts were these:Simon Lewis, aged nineteen, devoted indie-rock fan and comic book-lover, sunlight aficionado and devoted lazing-around-till-mid-morning practitioner, was a selfish fool who had a hard time grasping the severity of his actions.Raphael Santiago, frozen at seventeen, a firm believer in discipline and self-sufficiency, ascetic and guarded on the outside, was a foolish narcissist unwilling to admit to reciprocal blame. Oh, this can only end well.





	1. Dodging Well-Aimed Blows

 

Simon

 

Simon Lewis stood in front of Blue Sky Deli Grocery Shop in East Harlem, inhaling deeply and lamenting the fact he couldn’t stomach food anymore. The melting cheese from inside smelled mouth-watering, but he turned on his heels and continued his walk, knowing if he ate anything, he’d puke it out half an hour later. He missed cheese. Butter.

 

One upside to being a vampire in a vibrant, gigantic metropolis like New York, was that it didn’t actually matter all too much if you decided to live during the day or the night. It was the ideal living situation for a vampire.

 

There was enough activity brewing in the streets past sunset to never become bored, so there was that, Simon supposed.

 

He could continue his passion for music by going to gigs and concerts all over the city. Playing in a band, though? Unless he succeeded in convincing his band mates – whom he’d been avoiding, by the way – to become nocturnal and only practice at night, he could kiss that fantasy goodbye.

 

What else? Night time wandering across the Hudson bridge? Why not. Nosing around a library well into the wee-hours, nursing a caffeine-spiked blood thermos in relative privacy? Sure. Take a little tour on the Staten Island ferry and gaze at the inky, glittering water? Bring it on. Strike up a conversation with a lonesome security guard looking bored out of her mind? Mh. Catch a late-night comedy show? Possibly. Grab a few drinks at five thirty a.m., surrounded by chatty drunkards, exhausted cabbies that just finished their shift, and lonely, misfit New Yorkers with zoned out gazes telling slurred but outlandish stories? Well. Maybe. Could be a source of entertainment.

 

But, really, who was he kidding? He’d never do any of that, for a number of reasons.

 

One, he’d lived in New York his entire life, and had never done any of those things.

 

Two, the city actually drove him mad. There was such an overflow of — everything, dear _G_ – so much noise, and lights, and smells, and Simon spent half his nights trying not to smell too much, not to flinch back from the neon billboards, the taxis’ unnecessary honking, the torrent of stimuli behind hurtled at his brain.

 

Three, it was freaking lonely. The last thing he needed was an ocean of time and quiet to succumb to the near lunacy that came with being a newly turned vampire! And wasn’t that just ironic? A damn sea of time. And he was immortal. Kill me now!

 

No, it was plain and simple. What he needed was a good old distraction.

 

He already felt guilty for keeping Clary awake with his desperate-for-entertainment four a.m. texting. She’d stopped responding around five. Whoops.

 

So, as he walked his way back to Dumort – which, seriously, guys, you couldn’t come up with anything subtle? Announce your vampirism, what’s stopping you – after a night of ill-advised musing on his current situation, he started weighing his options.

 

Before he got to weighing his options, though, Simon realized he’d paused in front of Dumort.

 

He was basically still persona non grata in there, but after weeks of grovelling and pleading, and an unpleasant conversation with the one and only Magnus Bane who in turn spoke with Raphael, Simon and the clan had come to a precarious agreement, next to a punishment he’d prefer not to speak of: no unnecessary meet-ups with the Shadowhunters. No unsupervised outings (by the way, did he mention another reason he didn’t feel like wandering around the city at night by himself, was that he was not actually by himself but followed around by a mean witch named Rena who despised him?). No skipping blood meals. No leaving the hotel between sunrise and sunset. Mandatory attendance at all clan meetings. Mandatory declaration each time he stepped foot out of Dumort, and each time he returned. Mandatory sensory and physical training.

 

Mandatory this, mandatory that, no this, no that.

 

The life of an atoning traitor is a fine one. Un-life, Simon corrected himself. I’m dead now.

 

Simon heaved a sigh and brushed it off. He entered the hotel and sought out the voices echoing down the decrepit dusty lobby full of cobwebs and broken wood beams. Part of the decor, get it?

 

Lily’s bright blue hair was the first thing he saw, but a few seconds before he opened the door, the conversation had promptly died down. She nodded at him, mentally making note of his attendance.

 

‘Ah, the fledgling has returned,’ Stan called out. The rest of them remained quiet. ‘Cutting it a little close, aren’t you?’

 

‘Well, eh,’ Simon stammered, ‘there’s still an hour left, right? So no harm, no foul.’

 

With a guilty start, he realized he couldn’t even name every person in the room. Raphael was nowhere to be seen or heard. There was Lily, second-in-command, Stan, Rena, who pushed past him and plopped down on the couch, downing a glass of blood, and then François and Ali, whom he’d met briefly pre-Camille fiasco, and they seemed nice enough, but the other four faces? Shit. Couldn’t even name them.

 

Apart from Stan and Lily, no one greeted him or so much as looked him in the eye.

 

Simon shifted on his feet, grappling at something to say, anything, anything that would lessen the tension that always came up as soon as he entered Dumort. He was fucked.

 

‘Right,’ Stan eventually offered. ‘As long as you don’t burn to a crisp.’

 

He said the first thing that came to mind. ‘Can you guys watch the sunrise?’

 

Lily answered, ‘ _We_ can, Simon.’ And there. Yet another social blunder to add to the list.

 

He wanted to punch himself in the face. ‘Yeah. We. Sorry. Shit.’

 

Rena clonked her glass down on the table, hard, and smacked her hands on her knees. ‘Mh’, she grunted. ‘How about you just go to bed, huh, kid?’

 

Lily admonished, ‘Rena.’

 

For a moment, he was at a loss for words. Despite his geekiness and general tendency to flail and babble, he’d never really been bullied. Maybe it was just the guilt that made him feel bad. Maybe. Possibly.

 

‘No, yeah, I’m pretty beat, I’m just ah-gonna go to bed,’ Simon blurted out in one quick go. He pointed his thumb over his shoulder, pushed up his glasses, ‘I’ll see you guys tomorrow.’

 

‘Wait,’ Lily ordered. She got up from the divan and held out a glass of blood. ‘You’ve been gone a while.’ _Drink_. _Remember our agreement?_

 

It was god-awful. Not only did it still physically repulse him to drink the blood, but somehow, being ordered to do it in front of a whole bunch of people he barely knew only made it worse. Now they were looking at him. Testing him.

 

Lump in his throat. ‘Thanks’, he forced out. He drank. Held out the empty glass. ‘Good night.’

 

And with that, he turned around and left the room, stumbled to his mostly empty bedroom on the second floor, end of the hall, and dumped himself on the shitty mattress they’d offered him when he came back, blood sloshing to and fro.

 

By the time tiny, tiny specks of light barged through small holes in his curtains, he thought, vaguely and half-asleep: crap. I forgot about my good-old-distraction-plan.

 

 

 

Raphael

 

‘No, Simon, the bloodbags aren’t recyclable.’

 

‘Yes, Simon, we’ve got clan members working the night shift at the blood bank. Where do you think this comes from? The blood fairy?’

 

‘No, Simon. Garlic isn’t poisonous. It just smells like ass.’

 

‘No, Simon, for God’s sake, we do not sparkle. _Mierda_. I swear to god, get out of my face.’

 

‘No.’

 

‘No.’

 

‘No.’

 

Does he ever just shut the hell up? Raphael only wished to be left alone.

 

 

\--

 

 

Raphael’s celibacy track record was near spotless.

 

The concept of celibacy wasn’t too popular amongst mortals. Even amongst Downworlders or Shadowhunters. Celibacy was for losers, or those who hadn’t found _the one_ , whatever the hell that was supposed to mean. It was all so strange to him. He’d often thought about the difference between celibacy for mortals and immortals. Was one group more prone to it? Surely, if you lived over hundreds of years, it was impossible to be with the same person? He couldn’t imagine ever wanting that.

 

Either way, Raphael Santiago had been celibate for most of his seventy odd years. From time to time there’d be someone who’d capture his interest. He didn’t care for a continued attachment, either physical or otherwise.

 

But.

 

Then came something new and unexpected.

 

Simon.

 

He was not _the one_. But.

 

It was one of those inexplicable chemical reactions that happened in the brain. No rhyme or reason to it, it was just there.

 

It was there. It wasn’t sudden, and it wasn’t obtrusive to the point of demanding immediate action, but then there was Simon.

 

 

\--

 

 

Raphael turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. The scent of pine from his bar of soap lingered in the air.

 

He had nearly burnt his skin with the scalding water. It was one of the only ways to feel heat in this body anymore. Back when he’d just Turned, he’d let the water burn until the skin turned red and wondered if it constituted a first-degree burn. It took a while for the splotches to fade entirely.

 

For a few seconds he took stock of his bathroom. Late seventies décor, awful brown tiles and unflattering neon lighting. Garish. He’d have to get it redone sometime.

 

Raphael wrapped a towel around his body and grabbed a toothbrush, ridding his mouth of a foul taste that had been lingering since early morning. He popped his fangs and routinely brushed in up-and-down motions.

 

His mind drifted.

If he were completely honest, he’d say it was a surprise that not more vampires turned out to be sociopaths. How could they come to terms with immortality?

 

He hadn’t managed yet and he was over seventy years old, but still stuck in this young body. How could he be so tired?

 

Slowly, after a few decades – sometime in the late sixties – came the first bouts of despondency. Or, that was what he called it. He chose not to get diagnosed with anything, which was probably a monumental mistake. He didn’t like to call it anything.

 

Looking back, even as a human, it had been there, but it just never had the time to develop.

 

The question he kept asking himself was, how do not all vampires go insane? How do they not go mad from all these years of stagnation?

 

With loneliness came bitterness.

 

But then along came Simon.

 

It had been over a decade since the New York clan had had any new fledglings, and while time might have been frozen for vampires, it had the nasty habit of turning your soul to stone, of making your spirit go numb.

 

There were, as always, a few exceptions. That remarkable type of vampire that wasn’t corrupted by greed or power, nor high on arrogance of being immortal – which, to most sounded like some form of divinity, didn’t it –, that remarkable vampire that had actually gained true wisdom, and somehow managed not to turn into a soulless bastard. The kind of vampire that was a prized possession in clans.

 

They were short on those in the New York clan.

 

But, regardless of exceptions, it was a lesson every vampire would learn sometime in their very long, long life: fledglings were important. Where humans procreated to keep some part of them alive, taking shape in a continued bloodline, vampires very much abided by the same instinct of rejuvenation. Technically, sure, vampires were forever young. But your mind withered away if you let it.

 

And with the bitterness came jealousy.

 

How could any vampire stand to watch that cheerfulness, that carefree attitude? When they knew they were incapable of it themselves? But not everyone thought the way Raphael did. For the rest, when a fledgling came along, everyone tried to ensnare them, attempt to enjoy whatever was left of human hope and naiveté.

 

But then there was Simon.

 

And with the jealousy came a terrible sense of tragedy and foreboding.

 

How long until Simon would become an echo of himself? Someone who was far too cheer—

 

Raphael shook himself awake, and cursed loudly. Why always Simon? This, this was exactly what would drive him into that spiralling mess of madness. Too much thinking.

 

The mirror was still damp from his shower, his hair wet and dripping. He wiped away the fog and gave himself a long, hard assessing once-over. Gaunt. Pale. Young. Stern. Handsome.

 

He rinsed his mouth and dressed automatically, slipping into old silk pyjama’s he’d paid a fortune for.

 

It was late, nearing seven a.m., and the sun would be up in less than an hour.

 

There was still some noise in the hotel coming from downstairs, most likely Lily and a few others drinking and playing some card games.

 

But he was tired. He was so damn tired.

 

He flipped the light switch, nearly smashing the thing. He padded to the bed, falling in headfirst and succumbing to a dreamless sleep.

 

 

 

Simon

 

The facts were these:

 

Simon Lewis, aged nineteen, devoted indie-rock fan and comic book-lover, sunlight aficionado and a devoted lazing-around-till-mid-morning practitioner, was hopelessly inadequate as a vampire.

 

Like most fledglings, his biorhythm suffered a severe shock. Not that he was particularly unused to staying out all night, but he was usually drunk or in good company. Now, however, he was usually alone and sober. Not that great.

 

But one of the things that irritated him to no end, was that his admittedly dead body didn’t seem to get the memo that night time was now supposed to be day time.

 

So he found himself awake, starfished on his bedspread at one p.m. reading _The New Deadwardians_ and bored beyond belief, and battling belligerent drooping eyelids at three a.m.

 

 _I can’t even sleep right as a vampire!_ he thought. _Ridiculous!_

 

The facts were these:

 

Simon Lewis, still not attuned – sensory speaking – to his surroundings like other vampires, did not realize he repeatedly woke his clan leader in the early hours of the morning with his attempt to distract himself from boredom: the guitar.

 

Simon Lewis, guitarist extraordinaire and recent ex-band member, missed his music.

 

Simon Lewis, committing yet another blunder at Dumort.

 

Whoops.

 

 

Raphael

 

Today’s object of aggravation: Simon’s guitar. Especially around four fucking p.m.

 

It seemed the fledgling hadn’t adapted to the inverted lifestyle of vampires, because Raphael had been rudely awoken in the early hours by that nuisance of a guitar at least six times in the last month.

 

Fortunately for the others, they didn’t sleep on the second floor like Raphael. And he cursed himself for making that stupid decision: he had meant to keep an eye on Simon, but he was regretting the decision dearly.

 

And he was so damn tired. He groaned quietly and pulled the covers over his head, smashing his pillow against his ears.

 

But let it not be said Raphael Santiago wasn’t a vindictive asshole from time to time.

 

Case in point:

 

Two forty-seven a.m. Simon had returned from a midnight stroll – Rena reported him to be the most boring vampire on earth who did nothing but wallow and prattle on about comics –an hour ago, and was now steadily snoring.

 

_BOOM BOOM_

 

Raphael pounded on Simon’s door.

 

Simon didn’t stir.

 

 _BOOM BOOM_ , ‘ _Despiértate_ , Simon!’

 

He heard, ‘Wh— oh, G—,’

 

‘Rise and shine,’ Raphael called out, leaning against the corridor wall.

 

‘Raphael! It’s too early!’

 

‘Au contraire, it is the middle of the day, Simon. Get up. You’ve got training.’

 

He heard Simon stumble out of his bed and sigh, and mutter angrily, ‘Middle of the damn night.’ A minute or so later, Simon’s bedhead peeped out of the door. ‘You know, the timetable for these training sessions are suspiciously random.’

 

‘Is that what you’re wearing?’ Raphael eyed him up and down, gesturing at the musty, faded shirt and loose boxers. He didn’t smell too fresh.

 

‘Uhm, no?’

 

‘ _Uhm_ , _no_ ,’ Raphael mocked. ‘Get dressed. _Date prisa_. Hurry up.’

 

Simon grimaced and eloquently replied, ‘Ugh.’

 

‘Move.’

 

‘Yes, _sir_.’ Simon turned around and left the door slightly ajar.

 

Raphael didn’t react to the ridicule. He was angry, he was tired, and he was a vindictive little asshat.

 

‘Hey, what’s on the menu today?’ Simon asked from inside.

 

‘Dodging well-aimed blows.’

 

Raphael listened to Simon move around inside, attempting to ignore what would surely have been a rapidly beating heart once upon a time.

 

 

\--

 

 

So, the facts were these:

 

Every time Simon woke Raphael up with his guitar, Raphael woke Simon up with the promise of torturous training. An eye for an eye, and all that.

 

On some level, he was trying to teach him: he’d stop interrupting Simon’s sleep as soon as Simon realized what he was doing each time he lifted his guitar at an ungodly hour in a hotel full of vampires. Fool.

 

 

\--

 

 

Far be it from Raphael to admit this particular truth, but Simon was in fact a talented musician.

 

Even at – he checked his phone – five sixteen p.m., when the shutters were tightly drawn and Raphael’s head felt a thousand times heavier than it had when he went to bed, Simon was talented.

 

He didn’t have to see to know Simon’s fingers undoubtedly flittered across the strings with practiced ease, so quickly, it would be hypnotising. He didn’t have to get out of bed and come closer to hear that Simon’s voice rang clear and deep, well-trained.

 

But.

 

Raphael listened.

 

_I get the job,_

_they make it rain,_

_but now I need your shadow friend,_

_a pioneer would ask his kid,_

_are we clowns just running?_

 

_Now is it fear?_

_How does it ring?_

_How does it teach young birds to sing_

_and riot through the orchestra?_

_When is quiet coming?_

He listened.

 

… _and the why in the margin is true_

_please don’t doubt_

_I will get this and I love you_

_it’s just the time of the blue_

Music had the odd ability to completely nullify reality and impose another one on you, if only for three minutes.

 

As soon as Simon’s voice died down, the spell was broken and Raphael felt cold frustration return.

 

Maybe the guitar belonged in the dumpster.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1  
> Mierda (damnit) / Despiertate (wake up) / Date prisa (hurry up)


	2. Look At the Poor Bastard!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahoy mateys. Figured this day's a good as any for some escapism.

 

Simon

 

‘Man, get off me!’ Simon shouted, wriggling under Ali’s weight. And holy hell, did he weigh a ton! Now _there_ was an interesting mystery: how did vampires become overweight? Was it a medical condition, or did he drink a huge amount of blood? Or was it something else entirely? And _how_ did Ali manage to still be quicker and fitter than Simon? None of it made any sense!

 

‘It’s your job to defend yourself, not mine.’

 

‘Oh, come on! You weigh a ton, I can’t br—,’

 

Raphael interjected, ‘You don’t need to breathe, _idiota_. _Es una costumbra_ , Simon, force of habit.’ He was leaning against the door of the training room, dressed in a navy suit and a black ironed shirt, assessing Simon’s poor progress with disappointment and boredom clear on his face.

 

Still, however, Simon pushed out a breath and flattened out on the ground, muscles limp. ‘Well, gee, I’m sorry for having spent the last nineteen years of my life _breathing_ and now I’m dead. The instinct is still there, Raphael.’

 

‘You should follow your new instincts.’

 

Simon started wheezing. Ali got off him and had the decency to look apologetic. Sort of.

 

‘Ugh, these new instincts don’t _feel_ like instincts to me, that’s the whole problem!’

 

‘Exactly,’ Raphael said, pushing himself off the wall and turning to leave. ‘Stop pretending to be human. Maybe it’ll make you life a little easier.’

 

‘Unlife,’ Simon corrected. He stood up shakily and patted down his chest as if to look for damage. He frowned when drops of blood landed on his white shirt. Another night, another shirt ruined. Great. At least some shops were open until ten p.m. in the city. ‘Unlife,’ he repeated.

 

‘Same damn thing, Simon. It’s just a different type of life. _Hay que aceptarlo, niño. Estamos cansados de la esperar._ ’

 

‘I’ve told you,’ Simon shouted at Raphael’s retreating back, ‘not a lick of Spanish! Please stop doing that! Please and thank you!’

 

Ali followed the conversation but did not participate, feeling like an intruder despite supposedly being in charge of today’s training session. His eyes lingered on his clan leader.

 

 

\--

 

 

After a night of attempting to distract Clary from the fact that Jace was still nowhere to be found, Simon returned home in a foul mood. Months had passed. Months! And still, zilch, nada, nothing! All the trouble they went through, all the crap with Camille and pretty much being hunted down for his mistakes, and spending all that time locked up down in— no, he preferred not to think of that.

 

Simon gnashed his teeth, ripping his lip because, like a teenager, his fangs were out. ‘Damnit, G— _damn_ , fuck!’ he cursed. ‘This is not—,’

 

Rena stared at him as if he were crazy, and grunted, ‘Losing your mind there, baby?’

 

‘Shut up.’

 

She shoved him against a brick wall. Never mind being a vampire with superior healing abilities, that shit hurt.

 

They arrived at Dumort shortly after, and Rena parted ways as soon as she could. ‘Go and find Lily yourself, I’m going to bed.’

 

Simon didn’t bother with a reply. How come she hated his guts so much more than Raphael? It was getting old. He missed having people around. He missed his best friend. How often did he see Clary these days?

 

Simon turned right and wandered a bit further into the hotel, attempting to hear where Lily was.

 

He walked past Camille’s old living room now occupied by François and another woman he didn’t know by name. Simon nodded furtively and tried a smile. ‘Lily around?’

 

‘Somewhere, yes,’ the woman said. François gave the smallest smile in response. Simon was never sure if the guy was _extremely_ shy, or still distrustful.

 

François addressed the woman as Simon left the room and said to her, ‘ _Pauvre mec_.’

 

She replied immediately, as if she'd said it a million times before, ‘ _Quoi qu’il en soit, c’est pas a nous de réparer se qu’il a fichu en l’air_.’

 

François said, ‘ _Mais quand même. Regarde le. Et Raphael lui manque_.’

 

Simon was going to have to start learning some languages. This was ridiculous. Everyone was walking all over him and talking behind his back all the damn time, and he couldn’t even understand what they were saying.

 

He moved on past the kitchens and the poolroom and eventually found not Lily, but Raphael, sitting in the dimmed light of one of the many rooms decorated with gaudy couches and covered completely in black material. Probably velour or something equally stereotypical.

 

Raphael, dressed to the nines as always, didn’t move, and seemed endlessly lost in thought. The fact that his chest didn’t move at all unnerved Simon, even though he knew, rationally, there was no reason for Raphael’s chest to move. One arm was positioned on the armrest of the couch, propped up under his chin. With his other hand, he gripped something tied around his neck. His catholic anchor, the cross Simon had once traced curiously. There was no hissing of smoke, no smell of charred flesh.

 

Raphael's glazed eyes stared straight ahead, his mouth was pulled down in a frown and his young face was marked with lines. In that moment he looked infinitely older that what his seventeen-year-old body would suggest, closer to a clan leader than Simon had seen him before.

 

Rodin would’ve been jealous. A statuesque, elusive beauty. Frozen.

 

Simon was struck by the fact that Raphael hadn’t noticed him. Nothing indicated any kind of registration. What could he be thinking about? Maybe his family? Simon had heard a few things here and there. Camille? And, actually, what did he do in his free time? Simon had seen him play poker with the others, or read a book every now and then. What did he even do for a job? Simon was still a bit in the dark about that. Import export down at the docks where he could be found a suspicious amount of time? Administration of clan business? Overseeing relations between various clans in the states of the East coast? Was he like a vampire diplomat? Did he have some desk job somewhere? Probably not. But Simon was trailing off.

 

The moment stretched out too long, and each added second made Simon more reluctant to interrupt whatever was happening in Raphael’s brain right now.

 

Like an idiot, he stood there for a full two minute without opening his mouth or moving.

 

Unbelievable!

 

Was Raphael playing him? Was this a test?

 

Cautiously, Simon coughed. Once. Twice. ‘Raphael.’

 

At the mention of his name, he slowly craned his upwards and his eyes flickered in and out of focus. ‘Simon.’

 

‘Uh… Uhm. Yeah. I’m back. Obviously, because here I am … uh—’ the blank look on Raphael’s face was genuinely disturbing, ‘I’m looking for Lily —are you okay? You look a little dead, for lack of better word. No pun intended. Sorry, man, that was bad. But seriously, you need some blood or something?’

 

He felt Raphael’s eyes dropping to his neck and that was just too— no. ‘Uh, Raphael?’

 

‘Do you start every sentence with _uhm_?’ Finally, Raphael, visibly angered, got up and grimaced as if his legs were stiff. ‘Well? Do you?’

 

‘Uh— no.’

 

Raphael rolled his eyes. ‘You eaten yet? _Eres delgadísimo. Se podría pensar que eres un esqueleto_.’ He shook his head and let go of his necklace. ‘Are you even trying to take care of yourself? Or do I have to do everything for you?’

 

Simon moved out of the way when Raphael pushed past him. They walked side by side in the hallway in silence. They passed by François and the lady.

 

‘I— no _,_ you don’t have to do everything for me. I’ll eat before I go to sleep.’ It sounded untrue even to himself. But blood, man, it was thick and glib and had a tangy taste. Simon was never sure which was worse, animal blood tasted nastier, but human blood—

 

He felt a sharp pain on his arm and looked down to find pointy nails digging into his skin.

 

‘ _Mírame_ , Simon,’ Raphael said. When Simon didn’t comply, he added, ‘You’ve done enough high school Spanish to understand at least that, I hope. _Mírame_.’

 

Simon did.

 

‘You’ve been back for over three months. You need to do better. I’m not your damn mother. Step it up.’

 

‘The word _baby_ kind of doesn’t make sense, then.’

 

‘Dios, Simon,’ Raphael growled out, pinching harder, ‘don’t be difficult. Start taking care of yourself. We’ve all got our shit to deal with.’

 

‘Well, don’t you think that’s a bit unfair? I mean, you all got each other to lean on.’

 

‘And whose fault is that?’ came the icy reply.

 

Simon tugged his arm loose. ‘You’re never going to forget that, are you?’

 

‘Give me one reason I should.’ The dimly lit dark hall cast an ugly light on his face. ‘No really,’ he insisted, tilting his head to the side. ‘Magnus vouched for you, and I gave you a second chance against my better judgement, against all our better judgements, but here you are, acting like a child. And besides, you should be more concerned with being forgiven instead of your selfish act of colossal stupidity being forgotten, because that will never happen.’

 

‘Selfish?’ Simon shouted, confused. ‘I was trying to save—,’

 

‘Yes, selfish!’ Raphael ground out, jabbing a finger in his chest. ‘Did you consider what would happen to the clan when you released your precious-,’ Simon gagged, ‘Camille?’

 

‘Precious? She drugged me and killed me! And you helped her!’

 

‘That is not true.’ Raphael slinked back, running his hand through his hair and messing up his usually neat do.

 

‘Yes it is,’ Simon yelled, voicing buried anger. ‘Not stopping her means the same thing! _You_ —’

 

‘She was our leader and I couldn’t do anything—,’

 

‘Bullshit!’

 

‘ _If_ I would’ve intervened, she’d have killed me _,_ instead. Then you’d be dead anyways. I’ll admit,’ and here he faltered slightly, casting his eyes down, but then straightening back up, ‘I made a grave error in judgement when I brought you here, but I tried to do some damage control and salvage the situation as best as I could. But it turns out it was all for nothing, because not only is she walking free, but she’s absolved of her crimes because _you_ signed that fucking contract, _cabrón_!’

 

Raphael lifted his chin and squinted his eyes. ‘You haven’t learned a damn thing have you? I should never have taken you back.’

 

‘But you never really did!’ Simon shouted. ‘I know you wanted—,’ Raphael’s eye twitched, ‘I— I’m not really back here, though. No one will talk to me, you’ll barely look at me, I’m goddamn o-ostracized and it’s not getting any better even though I— it’s been months.’ He was spluttering out the words, incoherent.

 

Raphael shook his head and slumped his shoulders.

 

He stormed off, leaving behind a distraught Simon.

 

Fuck.

 

 

Raphael

 

_Remember when you were young, you shone like the sun_

_Shine on you crazy diamond_

_Now there's a look in your eyes, like black holes in the sky_

_Shine on you crazy diamond_

_You were caught on the crossfire of childhood and stardom_

_Blown on the steel breeze_

_Come on you target for faraway laughter_

_Come on you stranger, you legend, you martyr, and shine_

_You reached for the secret too soon, you cried for the moon_

_Shine on you crazy diamond_

_Threatened by shadows at night, and exposed in the light_

_Shine on you crazy diamond_

_Well you wore out your welcome with random precision_

_Rode on the steel breeze_

 

Raphael shut out the sound. It was endless.

 

He remembered a specific moment, well before Camille was released from her coffin.

 

A specific, secret moment, and the facts were these:

 

With a dirty grin on his face, he’d ordered, ‘Stick around.’

 

Simon’s face betrayed some exhilaration mixed with unease and frustration.

 

So Raphael lifted his brows and cocked his head, leading him to the kitchen. He offered a glass, dumping in a stick of celery, and said, ‘You’ve got a knack for negotiations.’

 

‘And you’ve got an eye for my neck, apparently,’ Simon joked, shifting on his feet uneasily. ‘Quit staring, freak.’

 

Raphael blinked, unaware of what he was doing. ‘Mh.’ Continued staring.

 

‘Raphael.’

 

‘Mh.’ He sighed and looked up. ‘What.’

 

Out of nowhere, Simon smiled, broad and bright, and it was infectious.

 

The facts were these:

 

Raphael Santiago, ascetic and collected on the outside, was a little less than ascetic and collected on the inside. In a matter of a few weeks, a history of nearly seventy years of semi-continued celibacy and disinterest slowly melted before his eyes.

 

The smile. Of course. He’d almost forgotten about that smile. (The fact was this: wrong). It was, quite possibly, the exact opposite of everything that was Raphael: effortlessly genuine, free, and very human.

 

 

Simon

 

He sang,

_I can see the future_

_I can see the future,_

and he strummed along – albeit quietly as to not wake anyone – with his electric guitar, hopping around to the music.

 

Simon remembered a specific moment, a little while before he’d fucked up with Camille, tried to save Jocelyn, and managed to screw over what could otherwise have been a place of acceptance and belonging.

 

Simon remembered a specific moment, and the facts were these:

 

As a teenager, Simon Lewis had indeed learned Spanish at school for a few of years. Never mind the fact that he was completely atrocious at it, a few words and sentences remained branded into his brain. Easy things, like, _hola amigo, come estas, come usted, lo siento, adíos, agua por favor, te quiero_ , and other useless bits of language that would never be useful to him, like, _Los marineros y los pescadores conocen los mares mejor que nadie._ _Estoy en Rusia. Me parezco a mi padre_.

 

However, he remembered the pre-cooked formulas and not the construction of the language, and spent most of his lessons attempting to make the girl of his dreams, Clary Fray, fall in love with him. It had been over five years, and he never bothered to keep up with the language, nor had he ever succeeded in his amorous endeavour.

 

The specific moment was the following:

 

Lily and Raphael sat opposite one another on a velvet red sofa, talking quietly. Simon was busy somewhere in the room, smelling different glasses of blood to train his nose and attempt to distinguish the different spices added by Ali, who had a passion for ‘cooking’.

 

Simon Lewis was terrible at this. Another vampire blunder. He smelled … blood. And blood. And blood. It was like when someone asked you what wine smelled like; like wine! Could that be ginger? Or wait, that other one kind of smelled of cinnamon and maybe sweet potato. It reminded him of his aunt’s cooking, Tzimmes for Rosh Hashanah, and damn it. He wasn’t paying attention to the blood. Instead he was just daydreaming of food he’d never eat again. Thinking about his mother and his sister, and sweet potatoes and—

 

He didn’t register the conversation, and only caught a few words.

 

Lily repositioned herself on the couch and slung her hair over the back. It dangled all the way to the floor. ‘ _No es la prima vez, right, que le gustas a alguien?_ ’

 

Raphael shrugged. ‘Almost never. _Pero non es lo mismo_ ,’ he said, sighing. ‘ _Y … él …_ ’

 

‘What’s different? _Por qué no pruébas_?’

 

Raphael remained silent for a while. ‘ _No estoy seguro. Casi nunca, a decir verdad_.’

 

‘Well, you’ll never know if you’ll never try. That’s the saying.’

 

Raphael scoffed and sipped his drink. ‘ _Mh. Tengo hasta la eternidad._ ’ He lowered his voice. Simon was sniffing the glasses under false pretences now. ‘But… _Cada día mientras que debo trabajar o dormir_ ,’ Raphael paused as if to search for the right words, ‘ _a mí me pasan las horas sin darme cuentas, y vuelve a aparacer en mi mente, de nuevo y de nuevo. Es insoportable._ ’ He rubbed his face.

 

‘Rapha—,’

 

‘I know. It seems I can’t help it.’

 

Raphael’s eyes flickered to Simon’s, and his face hardened. ‘Progress?’ he demanded.

 

Simon managed to figure out what they were talking about. Vaguely.

 

 

 

Raphael

 

He listened.

 

To a deep voice,

_Only one step further to fall down,_

_Into the big black hole of the lonely town,_

_Didn’t speak for a while now,_

_No sun for a while now,_

_Whish I could talk with my eyebrows,_

_It’s not what you think but it’s close,_

_Far away from reality,_

_It’s a little lonely,_

_But my green makes it nice and warm,_

_Doesn’t feel like something wrong—_

It was painstakingly difficult to hear him sing like this.

 

He was so damn tired and couldn’t get himself out of bed. By the time the sun had fully set and everyone was stirring all over the hotel, Raphael was still glued to the mattress, eyes going dry.

 

He murmured quietly, _Angel de la Guarda, dulce compańía, no me desampares ni de noche ni de día, no me dejes solo que me perdería,_ and on and on, until the words lost meaning.

 

Until there was a knock on the door and he froze, lying limp in bed.

 

Until whoever it was left.

 

Until an image from a night four months floated back

 

Until he was imagining the drifting voice of his little brother

 

Until

 

 

\--

 

 

Raphael knocked twice on Magnus’ door. Magnus, who opened the door with flourish, a wide grin plastered on his face and gesturing at his friend to come in.

 

To Raphael’s dismay, Alec was around. He hated that guy –ironic, because they shared a few unattractive traits. Namely, arrogance, and pretending to be unaffected and bored by everything.

 

‘Rapha! Finally. I’ve been expecting you for ages.’

 

‘I got held up.’ By my bed.

 

‘Can I get you anything to drink?’

 

‘ _Dios_ , yes. You got any B positive around? Spiked, preferably.’

 

‘Of course. What kind of host would I be otherwise?’

 

‘The kind that doesn’t inform their guests they won’t be the only ones in attendance?’

 

Magnus smiled faintly and looked over to where Alec was engrossed in a mess of papers strewn all over the coffee table. His bow and arrow lay next to the couch. ‘Strictly business, this time.’

 

‘Right’, Raphael said. ‘Business. Business any good?’

 

Alec didn’t look up from his papers, but mumbled, ‘Pretend I’m not here, why don’t you.’

 

‘Why don’t I, indeed,’ Raphael agreed.

 

Eventually, though, after a few drinks, Alec joined the conversation and sat on the floor leaning against the couch. Magnus played with the hem of his shirt, and Raphael wanted to puke.

 

‘How’s our dear Sherman holding up?’ Magnus asked, and Alec attempted to nonchalantly focus his attention on Raphael. Had Clary been pestering him for information? Raphael had a severe dislike for that girl. And for Alec. For Shadowhunters in general.

 

‘He’s fine.’

 

Magnus snorted. ‘Fine? Just fine? Settling in all right? No unresolved tension sullying Dumort?’

 

Raphael opened the buttons of his suit. ‘He’s … adjusting.’

 

‘Oh?’

 

He grunted. ‘He’s a child.’

 

‘He’s new, darling,’ Magnus corrected. He took a large gulp of his drink.

 

‘What’s the difference?’

 

‘He’s already grown up. But with dying comes shock. It’s traumatic. You remember what it’s like, don’t you? Dying? Unpleasant business,’ Magnus sighed.

 

To be honest, the memory faded away after a few decades. Time had that effect on you.

 

Magnus added, ‘You should give him a little nudge in the right direction.’

 

Alec looked thoughtful. 

 

‘I’m not his mother,’ Raphael argued, and he felt like he kept repeating himself.

 

‘No, you’re not. But you’re his clan leader. He has no guidance.’ Magnus knocked back his bourgeois cocktail, whatever the hell was in that blue concoction. It smelled disgusting. ‘Must be lonely.’

 

The facts were these:

 

Raphael knew Magnus was right. Magnus knew he was right. And Alec had indeed been approached by an adamant, yapping Clary, who insisted going through a series of people to get some information of Simon’s wellbeing, Simon who had become less than forthcoming ever since returning to Dumort.

 

Raphael didn’t say, ‘I’m lonely, too.’

He didn’t say, ‘I keep falling.’

He didn’t say, ‘I barely feel anything.’

 

Instead, he said, ‘Mh.’

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> C2  
> Es una costumbra (it’s a habit) / Cabron (bastard. vulg.) / Mírame (look at me)
> 
> Hay que aceptarlo, niño. Estamos cansados de la esperar. (you only need to accept it. We’re tired of waiting.)
> 
> Eres delgadísimo (you’re very thin). Se podría pensar que estas un esqueleto. (You’d think you were a skeleton)
> 
> Los marineros y los pescadores conocen los mares mejor que nadie. Estoy en Rusia, me parezco a mi padre. (Sailors and fishermen know the sea better than anyone/ I am in Russia / I look like my father)
> 
> No es la prima vez, right, que le gustas a alguien? (this isn’t the first time you’re interested in someone, right?)
> 
> Pero non es lo mismo (but it’s not the same), Y … él (and … he)
> 
> Por qué no pruébas? (why don’t you try?)
> 
> No estoy seguro. Casi nunca, a decir verdad. (I’m not sure. Hardly ever, to be honest)
> 
> Mh. Tengo hasta la eternidad. (Mh. I have until eternity). Cada día mientras que debo trabajar o dormir, a mí me pasan las horas sin darme cuentas, y vuelve a aparacer en mi mente, de nuevo y de nuevo. Es insoportable. (every day while I’m supposed to work or sleep, to me, it seems as if hours pass me by, and he keeps popping up my mind, again and again. It’s unbearable.)
> 
> Angel de la Guarda / dulce compańía, no me desampares ni de noche ni de día / No me dejes solo que me perdería (morning prayer: Guardian Angel / dear companion / do not forsake me in the day nor the night / do not leave me for I would lose myself)
> 
> Pauvre mec. (poor guy)  
> Quoi qu’il en soit, c’est pas a nous de réparer se qu’il a fichu en l’air. (either way, it’s not our job to fix what he messed up)  
> Mais quand même. Regarde le. Et Raphael lui manque. (But still. Look at him. And Raphael misses him)
> 
>  
> 
> Andrew Pinching, I see the future, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S2YCz3wtby8 which is fucking excellent, seriously listen to it!
> 
> fLako ft. Dirg Gerner, Lonely Town, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PRO2OWDj5kI 
> 
> Pink Floyd, Shine On You Crazy Diamond, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R0sw2CgysWY superb!


	3. Baby Shuts Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it an initiation rite into the saphael fandom, writing a fix-it fic?
> 
> Ah, shit, guilty as charged!

 

 

Raphael

 

With spare time to waste, Raphael had learned to occupy himself, like any other vampire.

 

So, he had cultivated several interests and hobbies, some surviving the years, other forgotten or abandoned. It was how he came to speak several languages, play the piano proficiently, how he had a precise, excellent, steady hand and absolute perfect aim while playing darts, how he knew he despised all heavy physical contact sports, but tolerated boxing, how he knew he was hopeless at dancing despite having a good sense of rhythm, how Sudoku was his bitch, how he knew he would never say no to a glass of B positive, but could barely stand A negative, and how he, after years of solitude constricted to the darkness, remained at heart a family man.

 

Every few weeks, Raphael would go down to the neighbourhood near the docks to visit what was left of his family in New York. (Tonight he’d left in haste, not wanting to see or talk to Simon who was already awake. Raphael felt pretty sure he was about to give in, to crack because of that damn smile, and probably fall right back into bed with that incompetent idiot who’d managed to screw him over before they’d even begun—)

 

He would visit the son and daughter of his now fifty-four year-old niece Belén, whose father, Eliseo, was Raphael’s younger brother. Belén knew what he was, and soon the two children would be told as well. He secretly looked forward to it, knowing they would be excited.

 

But the point was this:

 

Raphael Santiago knew very well who he was and what he wanted, and what he valued.

 

Raphael Santiago was and always had been, and always would be a family man, regardless of age or unlife. That was why, he knew, Camille was horribly unfit for the job of clan leader, whereas he would become a good one. And that was why, he knew, he felt hurt all the more when someone broke the trust of family.

 

 

Simon

 

With spare time to waste, Simon experimented with music, like trying out other genres, or converting songs that had no guitar parts, replacing synthesizers or drums with his own chords. This one, though, was just an old one.

 

He sang, in a deep voice,

_If you breathe in, then I breathe in,_

_and slowly let go,_

_If you need it I need it, then I need it,_

_and only we’ll know_ ,

and then promptly shoved his guitar away, sick of it. What a sappy piece of shit song. Never fucking mind it sounded good.

 

It was nearing sunrise, a few hours or so, but he’d not been able to sleep. His reflexion told him he looked like crap.

 

Man, was he hungry. Hunger as a vampire and hunger as a human were two completely separate things! When you were a human, hunger made you sick to your stomach. It made you lightheaded and weak.

 

When you were a vampire, however, before the bouts of light-headedness and weakness, first came the jittery feeling of unrest. Simon became snappy. Rude.

 

It was either Be Rude or Be Disgusted: blood drinking still didn’t sit right with him. He’d puked a few times, embarrassingly enough, when he couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that this was _human_ blood he was drinking. Was he a cannibal? Or did that only apply to flesh eating? Agh.

 

Simon left his room and quietly padded down the hall, down the stairs and turned left towards the kitchen, where he immediately opened the coolers and tore through a pack. Then another. Blood dripped down his chin.

 

‘You couldn’t have given me a better example of how you’re not taking care of yourself,’ came a voice from behind, and Simon honest to god shrieked. ‘How long’s it been since you last fed?’

 

‘Raphael! Fuck! What is wrong with you?’ he shouted. The half-empty blood bad was lying on the floor, blood splatters all over the white tiles. ‘How long have you been standing there?’

 

‘You’re cleaning that up, by the way.’ Raphael entered the kitchen and closed the door. 'How long?'

 

‘Were you –were you awake?’

 

‘Apparently. How long, Simon?'

 

‘So you heard—,’

 

‘Yes.’

 

‘Have you been hearing—,’

 

‘Yes.’

 

‘Uh. Oh, shit, sorry. I’m sorry if I kept you up. If I’d have known—,’ he started.

 

Raphael cut in, ‘Why did you think a vampire down the hall with enhanced senses _wouldn’t_ hear you? Honestly, Simon.’ He opened the cooler and got out a B positive bag, deftly draining the thing without spilling a speck of blood.

 

‘Oh. Well, you never make any noise, whether you’re asleep or awake,’ – (the fact was this: to Raphael this was a bit depressing to hear, as if it confirmed he wasn’t there at all) – ‘so I just figured you slept through it. Besides,’ Simon shrugged, leaning over the counter to grab a cleaning rag, ‘I was never loud or anything.’

 

'How long, Simon?'

 

He murmured, 'Day before yesterday.' 

 

Raphael rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sighed. ‘You sound good.’

 

‘I do? Thanks.’ Simon remained awkward. Then, unexpectedly, smiled broadly. He couldn't help it. Raphael looked like wanted to take a blow at that face.

 

‘Mh,’ he grunted.

 

‘Rapha, about yest—,’

 

‘Don’t call me that, _entiende_?’ Raphael bit out.

 

Simon looked taken aback for a second, then recovered. ‘Sorry. Dude, you are such an asshole sometimes. I’m trying. And, fuck you, I was trying to apologize for yesterday.’

 

‘Well, go on then.’

 

Simon smacked the bloodied rag on the counter. It came down with a disgusting _slosh._ He pushed up his glasses – unnecessary, but he still liked them. Maybe it was some hipster leftover.

 

‘I do …’

 

…

 

‘You do what? How am I supposed to know what you’re saying?’

 

Simon pushed out the words with visible effort. Apparently they were both stubborn. ‘I _do_ think about what I did. About Camille, I mean.’

 

The facts were these:

 

One, Simon Lewis, a selfish fool, spent most time trying not to think about Camille and how his life had spiralled out of control since that fatal evening he’d gone out with Maureen and Clary.

 

Two, Simon Lewis might be blind and deaf to a vampire’s standard, but he still scored rather well on the human scale: though reluctant to admit it, it wasn’t too difficult to understand why Raphael was angry. A seething, simmering hate that translated to icy replies and obvious dismissal and avoidance of Simon, as opposed to the others, who let their anger show.

 

Three, Simon Lewis didn’t know what the hell to do about it.

 

Simon didn’t say, ‘Shit, I’m sorry you fell for such an ass like me.’

He didn’t say, ‘So, after all this time, it kinda seems like you’re still … you know. Uhm?’

He didn’t say, ‘I’m sorry I hurt you.’ Not the clan, but you.

 

He couldn’t say any of that. Even thought he should have.

 

Instead he said, ‘I’m sorry I let her out and endangered all of you. It’s my fault she’s out there now, free.’

 

Raphael stared at him, disappointed.

 

 

Raphael

 

Raphael stared at him, furious. ‘I’m not going to forgive you. Not until you apologize for the right thing.’

 

‘Rapha—,’

 

‘ _Pendejo_.’ Raphael shook his head. ‘No.’ He left.

 

Raphael remembered a specific moment, the day before Camille was set free. A moment seared into his brain, no matter how much he wasted away in his bed with an unresponsive mind.

 

There was a specific moment, and the facts were these:

 

Simon came back exhausted from the Institute, groaning about food.

 

‘Blood,’ Raphael corrected, leaning over Simon’s slumped body in the couch.

 

Simon waved his hand. ‘Sustenance. What have you. Whatever. Get me some.’

 

He peeped an eye open and found Raphael raising his brows. ‘Please?’

 

‘You’re lucky I’m in a good mood, baby,’ he warned, walking to a spare cooler behind a screen and pulling out a bag. ‘Here. _Buen_ _provecho_.’

 

‘I assume that means enjoy or something.’

 

‘The education system is going down the drain,’ Raphael said. He plopped down on the couch next to Simon. He was staring again.

 

‘Quit staring, freak,’ Simon grumbled. A bit of blood spilled from the tube, flicking against his cheek.

 

With the devil quite possibly possessing him, Raphael moved forwards and licked away the drop.

 

Simon flinched, and blood smeared next to his mouth. He froze and whipped his head to Raphael. ‘Uh…’

 

‘Mh?’

 

Raphael leaned in, testing the waters and leaving room for refusal, but when none came and Simon kept switching from staring at his lips and his eyes, he leaned in further and sucked away the blood. ‘Oh. Uh. That …’

 

‘Well, well, well, baby shuts up.’ Raphael smiled. A genuine smile. And Simon being Simon couldn’t help but mimic it.

 

‘It’s just, uh, unexpected.’

 

‘Really?’ He sucked hard and with a soft pop, his fangs protruded and he bit down on Simon’s lips.

 

And the specific moment was the moment when Simon relaxed around him and took charge. It made him feel, in some respects, alive.

 

 

 

Simon

 

‘Are you kidding me?’ Simon shouted at him, running into the hall. ‘You’re just walking away? I’m trying to talk to you! You know, you keep accusing me of shit, but I think you should take a long, hard look in the mirror! You think I’m the only one to blame for this whole thing?’

 

Raphael didn’t turn around. At the top of his voice, he yelled ‘Fuck you!’ and then Raphael swivelled and hissed, ‘ _Cállate_! Keep your voice down, you idiot. Do you ever think about anyone other than yourself?’ Raphael yanked him back into the kitchen and slammed the door shut. Everyone in Dumort was awake.

 

There was a specific moment, during the early morning before he set Camille free and signed that fateful contract. A sensory memory, one he could smell and hear, rather than see.

 

There was a specific moment, and the facts were these:

 

Simon got out of the shower, smelling of pine. It was a fresh, soothing scent.

 

Raphael tracked his movements from where he lay in bed, a near invisible, content smile on his face. He looked relaxed.

 

‘You leaving?’

 

‘Yep,’ Simon said, buttoning his jeans, ‘Going back to the Institute before the sun’s up. Got some stuff I need to take of there. They’ll hate me for asking to black out the windows again, but oh, well.’ Simon towelled his hair. ‘A vampire’s gotta do what a vampire’s gotta do.’

 

‘You need blood?’

 

‘Probably for the best,’ Simon grimaced. ‘Yuck.’

 

Raphael hummed. ‘Maybe you’re going about it wrong.’

 

‘What do you mean?’

 

Raphael smirked and motioned for him to come closer. Simon approached cautiously, setting the wet towel aside and dipping on the mattress. Now, he wasn’t a dummy. He knew where this was going.

 

‘It can be good, too, you know.’

 

Simon pushed his glasses up. His hands were clammy. He smelled pine everywhere.

 

‘Can I show you?’ It was vulnerable, lacking Raphael’s usual arrogance.

 

He nodded, and then Raphael put one hand behind Simon’s neck and the other under his chin, thumb pressing against Simon’s skin, bared his neck slowly, and pulled him in. ‘Carefully, and slowly,’ he instructed. At least Simon could follow instructions, and he punctured ice-cold skin, feeling a rush of blood escape. His hands slid up, pausing on both sides of Raphael’s shoulders, then neck, then intertwined at the back of his head, curling into his hair, and he sucked closely, kissing the reddened skin.

 

It really was the strangest sensation. It made Simon feel warm inside. He never drank blood this slowly, this intently, and certainly not from _him_.

 

And that was the specific moment, when Simon pulled away and saw the expression on Raphael’s face. Satisfied and at peace.

 

 

Raphael

 

Everyone in Dumort was awake, pretending not to listen.

 

‘I still can’t grasp what led you to believe it was the right move. Of all the impulsive, thoughtless—’

 

‘For Jocelyn, I’ve told you! I needed to save her, we needed to save her! She’s like my second mother. She’s important to me,’ Simon explained for the thousandth time.

 

‘There could have been another way to save her.’

 

‘No—,’

 

‘Yes, Simon, there’s always another way. Do you seriously think that no one but Camille knew where the book of white was? No one? Not a single person?’

 

‘There was no time! And you know what, I’m getting sick and tired of you lying to me. You’re not pissed I betrayed the clan, you’re pissed I betrayed _you,_ because we—,’ he stopped.

 

‘ _Pendejo_ ,’ Raphael repeated with venom, inching closer with a murderous look on his face. ‘You can’t say it, can you? We slept together. I cared for you and you knew what that meant, and then you spat in my face. You didn’t care at all.’

 

‘I never said that.’ Simon tried to reach out to him.

 

Raphael slapped his hand away. He didn’t like people touching him. ‘Stop. And you’ve had three and a half months to correct my assumptions.’

 

Simon deflated and leaned against the kitchen counter, pushing the bloodied rag into the sink. ‘Listen, Rapha, I don’t know what to think, all right? It’s not like you’re so easy to read! And I’m not gonna keep apologizing for what happened, okay? I made a decision – a shitty one, okay, yeah – but I made a decision and I stick to it. I’m sorry for hurting you, it really wasn’t my intention.’ He wiped his hands on his jeans. ‘I wanted … I think about you sometimes,’ he admitted, looking away.

 

The expression of fury on Raphael’s face cleared and was replaced with sorrow. A genuine face, for once. Simon reached for another blood bag, obviously feeling antsy.

 

Finally admitting what he felt and sounding hopelessly small, Raphael said, ‘I don’t know what to do with you.’

 

The sun was setting now, a faint red glow peeping in through the shutters.

 

‘That makes two of us,’ Simon said.

 

They stayed in the kitchen side by side for the rest of the morning – early evening. There were still a few droplets of blood on the floor that needed to be cleaned up. The blood bag Simon had been drinking was empty, and he tossed the pack into the bin, settling back against the kitchen island in the middle of the room while taking his glasses off, rubbing at his eyes, running his hands through his hair. Raphael followed the movements. A little bit of blood was starting to turn brown right above Simon’s upper lip. Raphael weighed his options. Most likely the bastard knew. Or maybe he was just an inadequate vampire.

 

Raphael took a napkin, approached Simon, wiped away the blood, and accused, ‘Tramposo.’

 

 

 

—

 

 

The facts were these:

 

Sometime in the future, Simon would again step out of a shower smelling like pine.

 

Sometime in the future, Raphael would admit the burden of immortality on his mind, how he could not stand it.

 

Sometime in the future, Lily would slap Simon, leaving behind an ugly red mark, when Raphael explained the details of what happened between them.

 

Sometime in the future, Simon would walk around the gigantic metropolis of New York City by himself, undeterred by the lights and the smells, and he would not be thinking himself into an abyss, but instead, smiling at a story Ali told him the day before. He would have abandoned the grand distraction plan.

 

Sometime in the future, Raphael would find himself paralyzed in his bed, numb to time, pushing away a distressed face floating above him.

 

Someday, maybe in a decade or a century, or heaven knows when, everyone they once knew would die, the world changing around them at snail’s pace, but they would stay frozen in time.

 

And then one day, Simon would understand the real importance of new blood, of a fledgling, of the rejuvenating importance of life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> C3  
> Entiende? (understood?) / Pendejo (coward) / Buen provecho (enjoy) / Callate! (shut up) / Tramposo (cheater)
> 
> Half Moon Run, Need It, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ynyLUrn41xM 
> 
> Ahoy mateys! That's all for now. Hope you enjoyed reading. 
> 
> Despite current the political shitstorm, I hope you have a good day. Look out for each other!

**Author's Note:**

> Ahoy mateys!
> 
> Also, no beta, so all mistakes are mine, and I don't own any of the characters apart from any OCs. You know the drill.  
> Comments and kudos are like food for my soul!


End file.
